25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Adrian
I pretend to work, though every one of my senses is attuned to Mira. Her scent drifts through my office, merging with my smoked cedar with perfect compatibility.
She doesn’t understand what that means.
I watch her from beneath my lashes as she explores the bookshelves, her delicate fingers trailing along the spines. The winter light catches the auburn highlights in her hair but also illuminates how painfully thin she is. My jaw clenches at the sight of her collar bones jutting too sharply as they poke from the neck of her too-large sweater.
She stills before she pulls out a book on omega biology, and I force myself to remain still despite the way my muscles tense with the urge to help her wrangle it from the shelf. Her scent shifts subtly… surprise, confusion, a hint of fear. What has caused such a visceral reaction? I can’t ask her directly as she’ll shut down, so I hold my tongue.
For now.
When she opens up to me, I want it to be because she trusts me. Because she wants to share her thoughts. Because she understands I’m there to support her.
My chest cracks when she peeks at me, no doubt to see if I’ll allow her to read the book she’s chosen. To garner permission or gauge whether I disapprove.
The fragments of her life my pack brothers and I have pieced together paint a disturbing picture. I notice every one of her little glances. Her hypervigilance when she’s around us. Her flinches at sudden movements, the way she watches exits, how she gulps down her food as though eating is a luxury with a limit.
She moves to the armchair, hesitating before sitting as if expecting punishment. Too much attention makes her skittish, so I maintain the illusion of work while she carefully and slowly settles into the chair.
The sweet notes of her scent warm with the subtle undertones of heat, and my fingers still on the keyboard. Something's not right. Her heat cycle should be finished, yet there's an unmistakable shimmer of fever-scent threading through her natural fragrance. My nostrils flare, analyzing, worry coiling in my gut.
I watch as she shifts in the chair, a slight grimace crossing her features before she can hide it. A feverish flush creeps up her neck, staining her too-pale cheeks. The sight sends my protective instincts into overdrive, but I force myself to remain seated.
Damn it. This isn't normal. The heat took everything out of her. What if there are lingering effects we don't understand from years of taking suppressants obtained from gods-know-where .
She squirms again, pressing her thighs together. The movement is subtle, probably subconscious, but it speaks volumes about her discomfort. My fingers curl into fists beneath the desk, nails biting into my palms as I struggle to maintain my composed facade.
“Little One,” I keep my voice soft, careful not to startle her. “Are you all right?”
She tenses immediately, clutching the book tighter. “I'm fine, Alpha.” The lie falls from her lips automatically, practiced, and something dark twists in my chest at how easily she dismisses her own well-being.
I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “I can call Dr. Maverick back if you want a check-up after your heat. Just to see how you’re recovering.”
Fear spikes in her scent, sharp and acrid, and her face pales more, if that’s possible. Her grip tightens around the pages and she grows unnaturally still. “I…I don't need any treatments. I promise I'll be good.”
I'm divided between my better judgment and the raw fear in her scent. My instincts scream to call Dr. Maverick and get him back here but the way she's holding herself—like a creature expecting punishment—tells me forcing anything right now would be catastrophic.
I take a deep breath, letting her scent wash over me. Beneath her fear and lingering heat, there's infinite weariness that makes my chest ache.
“How about some hot chocolate instead?” I offer, deliberately shifting to something nurturing but non-threatening.
Her pupils dilate instantly, desire flashing across her face before she can mask it. It's these little tells that break my heart. How she wants but won't ask; how she denies herself the simplest comforts.
“Stay there. I'll get it for you,” I say.
“No, Alpha, please, I can make it for both of us.” She's already trying to rise, though I can see how her legs tremble with exhaustion. “It's my place to serve—”
“Your place,” I interrupt softly, “is to rest and heal.” The outdated notion of omega servitude makes my blood boil. “I'm a grown man, Little One. And remember, I watched YouTube and learned how to cook. I assure you I'm quite capable of making hot chocolate. ”
She sinks back into the chair, confusion warring with ingrained submission on her face. “But—”
“No buts.” I stand slowly, maintaining a gentle smile. “You rest. Let me take care of you.”
I leave the office, my enhanced hearing picking up the way she shifts restlessly in the chair, like she can't quite believe she's allowed to stay there. In the kitchen, I pull out the ingredients for proper hot chocolate… none of that powdered stuff. Real chocolate, whole milk, a touch of vanilla. She needs the calories, and I need the soothing ritual of making something with my hands and providing for my omega in this small way.
As I heat the milk, I can't help but strain my hearing toward the office, making sure she's still there, still safe. The familiar motion of stirring helps calm my racing thoughts, but I can't shake the worry about that lingering heat-scent. One step at a time, I remind myself. First, we build trust. Then, hopefully, she'll let us help her heal.
I've just finished pouring the rich chocolate into two mugs, adding a touch of whipped cream to hers, when my phone buzzes against the counter. Setting the drinks aside, I swipe open the message from Dr. Maverick, and my whole body goes rigid.
MAVERICK: Toxicology results in. Suppressant levels critical. Multiple types, long-term use. Explains mega heat. Expect severe withdrawal symptoms over next 2-3 weeks. Temperature fluctuations, cramping, possible fever spikes. Natural bonding will stabilize her system.
The phone creaks in my grip as I recall an obscure lesson in omega biology. I force my fingers to relax. The clinical words blur together as rage and fear war in my chest. No wonder her heat-scent hasn't fully faded. Her entire system is fighting years of chemical abuse.
Withdrawal symptoms will be extremely painful without pack bond support.
Her full pack .
Even during her heat, when biological imperatives should have been strongest, she didn't choose us. And Cole didn’t even join in during her heat to help her.
A rejected omega will be a very sick omega.
Especially one rejected by her scent-matched mate.
I close my eyes, inhaling. The sweet scent of hot chocolate mingles with her sweet lilac drifting from the office, reminding me of what's at stake. I want her to choose us freely, not because withdrawal symptoms force her hand.
I type back a quick response to Maverick.
ADRIAN: I’ll keep monitoring her. Will update on symptoms. No forced bonding.
Not until she chooses us for the right reasons.
Picking up the mugs, I try to school my features into something less murderous. She's too observant. She'll notice if I'm upset. And right now, she needs to feel safe more than I need answers, but as I head back to the office, I wonder how much more damage we haven't discovered yet. How many more bombs are waiting to explode in her system?
I step into my office, mugs in hand, and immediately freeze. Her heat scent has spiked sharply, filling the room with distressed omega. She's curled tighter in the armchair, impossibly small.
The oversized sweater she's wearing—more hole than fabric—drowns her frame. I think of the designer clothes Zane ordered, still in their boxes in her room, next to a bed she hasn’t touched other than the night I spent with her in it, while she builds her nest in the closet . Like she’s taking up as little space as she can. Like she can’t accept what we’ve given. Lessening her impact in our space.
Like she's preparing for a quick escape.
A subtle tremor runs through her body, but she keeps her face blank, pretending to read. Only the white-knuckled grip on her book and the sour note of pain in her scent betray her. My hands tighten around the mugs, ceramic hot against my palms.
“Little One,” I keep my voice soft, gentle. “You're in pain. ”
“I'm fi—”
“Don't.” The word comes out sharper than intended, and I hate how she flinches. I moderate my tone, letting calming pheromones fill the space between us. “Please don't lie about your pain.”
She looks up then, and the raw vulnerability in her eyes freezes me in place. There's confusion there too, like she can't understand why I care. She shudders, and this time she can't suppress her whimper.
I move slowly, setting the hot chocolates on the side table. “May I come near you?” Every fiber of my being screams to gather her close.
She stares at me, uncomprehending, like the concept of asking permission is foreign to her. The book slides from her trembling fingers as another wave of pain hits, and I catch the tome before it can fall.
“I don't...” she starts, stops, swallows hard. “I don't understand why you're being so nice to me.” The words are barely a whisper, heavy with confusion and fear and something that might be hope.
My heart cracks wider. Because you're ours. Because you deserve kindness. Because whoever taught you that you don't deserve basic human decency was a monster .
I kneel beside the chair, making myself smaller, less threatening. “Because you're in pain. Because you need to know what it’s like to be taken care of,” I say. “Because I can help you, if you'll let me. May I come closer?”
She stares at me, her jaw locked tight as she grinds her teeth. I stay still, letting her take her time while she works out whatever she has to work out. Then, thank fuck, she nods. It’s nothing more than a dip of her chin, but I’ll take it.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, but she remains still, trembling. I bring my nose to her scent gland and she shivers, a small sound catching in her throat. The moment I inhale, my cock hardens instantly, my knot swelling against my zipper. I maintain my careful composure, even as her scent floods my senses with pure need.
Fuck . Beneath the sugared lilac, there's a heavy undercurrent of arousal and pain so intertwined I can barely separate them. It's like her heat scent, but sharper, more desperate. My instincts roar to claim, to soothe, to take away her pain. I force them down, drawing back to look at her .
Her pupils are blown wide, dark pools drowning the deep emerald of her irises. A fine sheen of sweat gleams on her upper lip, and she's breathing in short, controlled gasps. She's fighting it, so hard, but pain is etched in every line of her body.
“Little One,” I keep my voice steady despite the way my body thrums. “I just received a message from Dr. Maverick about your toxicology results.” I brush my thumb gently across her pulse point as it races beneath her skin. “You’re having a withdrawal spike.”
She tenses, fear threading through her arousal scent. I continue quickly, “The suppressants you took...they've built up in your system.” Only Gods know what was mixed in with the suppressants she took. They could have been laced with anything and reconstituted. Cutting drugs is a common enough technique to bulk out the output with whatever tablets were stolen from Pinnacle. So fucking dangerous and I’m looking right at the terrified victim of this crime. I watch her process this, see the moment understanding dawns in her eyes. “These spikes... they're going to keep happening until the drugs clear your system.”
Or until you bond with us . I don’t say that. Hearing those words would be a surefire way to scare her the hell away from us. Fate will only give us one chance at claiming our mate. If we don’t do it right, we’ll lose her forever.
Another tremor wracks her frame, and this time she can't hold back a whimper. My knot pulses in response, but I ignore it. This isn't about my needs.
“I can help with the pain.” I watch her face. She’s suffering so much she’ll need more than my scent alone. She tried to handle things herself in the shower but her own hands are not enough. She needs one of her alphas. She needs me . “If you'll let me. But only if you want it, Little One. The choice is yours.”
She bites her lip, confusion and need warring in her scent. “How?” The word comes out broken, desperate.
“My scent, my touch… they can ease the symptoms.” I keep my hand on her neck, letting my thumb stroke her soft skin. “Your body knows what it yearns for. ”
Her thighs press together, and fresh arousal spikes in her scent but there's still fear and hesitation. I wait, patient despite my straining cock, despite every alpha instinct screaming to take care of her.
“You don't...” she swallows hard. “You don't have to...”
“There is no ‘have to’ when it comes to you, Little One. Let me be clear. I want to. But only if you want it, too. We can try something small first. See if it helps,” I suggest.
I hold still, watching her wage an internal battle. Finally, so quietly I almost miss it… “Please.”
The word breaks something in my chest. Such a simple request, but I can see how much it costs her. I lean in again, this time letting my lips brush her scent gland. “I've got you, Little One. Let me take care of you.”